Maybe I can learn

I wonder--

if I had believed in Santa Claus as a child--

really believed he was real,

hoped for him to come,

wondered if it was he I heard in the night before Christmas--

then when I learned otherwise,

maybe I would have learned that just believing something doesn't make it true.

That wishing with all my might doesn't make it more real.

That thinking the creaking house is the step is a jolly old benefactor wouldn't make it true.

That envisioning him climbing down the chimney doesn't mean he is climbing down the chimney

because

he does not even exist.

I would have learned that stories concocted in my mind have no bearing on reality. And that not all stories told by others are true.

Exposed lies can teach truth. Maybe I can learn the lesson right now, as an adult. "When I was a child I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things." Thinking of myself as the person I wish to be doesn't make me that person. In fact, I have minimal control over how people see me. Wishing for something until I believe it could really happen does not change the quite different facts, and if I'd deal with life in more currency of reality I'd experience fewer disappointments, I suspect.

It sounds like the shattering of childhood style fantasy could lead to doubting God.

But that's a very shallow assumption, because concocted cultural icons are not the same as truths of ancient historical and present validation. A movie "The invention of lying" attempted to poke fun at faith, but undermined itself at every turn by its inability to present a world free of abstract truths, subtlety, and everything else the writers seemed to consider lies.

Letting go of fantasy logic does make for a more intellectual seeking of the invisible holy God.

"For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when the perfect comes, the partial will come to an end. When I was a child I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I will know fully, as I am fully known. Now these three remain: faith, hoe, and love. But the greatest of these is love." I Cor 13:9-13 HCSV

More about the Winnebago

The day the electricity went out was the same day I finished paying for my 1985 Winnebago camper. This was quite an accomplishment for me and involved a diet of quesadillas and instant coffee.

“I told you we should have planted a garden this year,” I said to no one in particular, leaning toward the light of the window to pluck some hangnails. Abby gave me a weird look, but said nothing. It was the first of March.

What I really meant was that we should have planted one last year, though I hadn’t had the idea of planting one til this year. Sometimes that’s just how I talk.

Kenny slammed into the house and flicked a light switch. He flicked it again. He looked at us. Like Abby, he made no comment; we’d all known it was coming.

We had a good thaw a week later. During that week, I’d gone to the library and researched the conversion of a standard well to a manually-pumped well. It was just one of those things I thought of. We’d debated building a windmill, but didn’t have the materials. I had to hand it to Kenny; he searched online forums and junkyards, and came up with the hand pump. Meanwhile, our water came from an artesian well located forty-five minutes away.

But frankly, I lost interest in making it work there. I’d paid my share of rent and utilities. I had a very good attitude about it, I felt. But Kenny and Abby spent their money one food and entertainment they couldn’t really afford, and it was I who swore and skinned my knuckles and bloodied my knee in the process of trying, and failing, to replace the electric pump with a manual.

So I hopped into the Winnebago……

In terms of mean and nice

The other day I parked at some old acquaintances' home in Birmingham, AL. I ran over their mailbox on the way in. How did this 1985 Winnebago make it all these years and all these miles without mishap? It's the same age as me, and though I've never broken a bone, I've had plenty of scrapes & bruises. I never thought I'd drive a semi, but I feel like this is one. Wish I had company on the road. But I'm not planning to be on the road all the time--it's the freedom to move, while keep my home with me, that I like. What an unheavenly idea! Anyway, about company. I've a mind to pick up random travelers. Oh dear, how quickly I'd become a traveling homeless shelter (lovely idea by itself) and lose my dream of a traveling studio.

They told me I could hang out here all winter if I want. Of course I won't, but it's nice to know I won't be overstaying my welcome if I hang around more than a couple weeks. I can't stay here too long because I know them. Even somewhat. I've got to get away from people I know, because of my insatiable sociability, even when I don't want to be social. I've got to go somewhere where everybody is mean! Mean and rude, and then I'll be like Fine, I'll stay in my trailer and you stay in yours, and I'll write some awesome stuff on my laptop, and I'll paint some awesome paintings, and I'll record some awesome music, but darnit, if you haven't picked up & left by then, I'll have found a way to give you some downhere music or something, and we'll be friends, and we'll

sit around the campfire, have a beer,

talk about the weather

look up at the stars.

you'll tell me horrible tales because you're mean, remember

and I'll say, that is horrible...

and I'll say, one time I had a nosebleed and I smeared it all over my face.

and you'll say something else horrible and I'll say, see the stars, how they praise God while you say such things.

Anyway I'm done inventing mean neighbors, I'm not very good at it. Mean people are the ones like me to just want to be alone to be creative, and that's not really mean but it seems like it. So those aren't the mean people. Mean people are the ones who hurt other people. I'd like to stay away from people like that. Mean person comes knocking on my RV door and I say "Who's there?"

"Mean person coming to hurt you."

"Go away, I am busy being creative. I don't have time for mean people like you unless you will be nice. See? I'm mean. You shouldn't have time for me!"

Anyway here I am in Birmingham. My habits are good so far, but I'm scared they'll slip any time. I made my bed, washed the dishes, and even did some dusting that didn't need done. Now that's good housekeeping if I ever heard of it. Blech.

I have maps on the wall. I have a map with stars for all the cities in the North America where I know people. It's pretty amazing. My downhomie friends make the constellation a bit starrier than it was before 2008.

I also have a phone list I made for my current city--B'ham-- of a bunch of venues where I can regularly seek piano gigs while I'm here. And of course a big calendar next to that list. Several gigs written in.

Biggest problem is this. this isn't big enough for an art studio. Shouldn't've compromised on space! I can't paint in cramped conditions. So the beginning premise of this venture is already doomed. Gah! And sound carries too easily out of the RV, which takes away my sense of privacy when I'm composing music. So I think I'll go home now to December, 2009, and call my friend like I need to, and unbuy this RV (heaven knows where I'll find another one like it), and put on my winter clothes again... and yeah, unvisit these people in B'ham that I haven't seen in like 10 years. Sorry, B'ham friends. Goodbye.